


Unheimliche

by sinaddict



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-14
Updated: 2009-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-07 18:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/67789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinaddict/pseuds/sinaddict
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We've done this before?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unheimliche

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is dedicated to the fabulous [iridescentglow](http://iridescentglow.livejournal.com/), who has been beta-ing this off and on for a truly ridiculous amount of time. (Think years.)

_"We've done this before?"_

_"How can you not remember?"_

 

*

 

"Here's the thing," Gerard taps ash from his cigarette absently before taking another drag. "None of this is real, right? I think I'm actually absolutely insane and this is all just my imagination. I'm probably locked up in some psychiatric hospital, hallucinating all of this."

"I'm just a figment of your imagination?"

"Maybe." He stops, shaking his head, because even that tiny admission that there could be no Mikey is just too much to comprehend. Changing tracks, he amends, "Maybe you're real, but you're not really here. And I'm not really here. Maybe we actually lead completely separate lives. You're a doctor or a lawyer or something, and I'm locked up in an asylum imagining what you are to me here is reality."

Slight pause, hesitance staining the space between them. "You haven't been drinking again."

Gerard isn't nearly as offended with the implication as he thinks he probably should be. There are people who've been sober a hell of a lot longer than he has who fucked it all up in one second of weakness, and he's never been that strong to begin with. "No. I'm just... I don't know. Forget I said anything."

Another pause, and Gerard hates when people won't just say what they're thinking because they're so sure that the wrong word could send him spiraling into a suicidal haze. "I mean it," he insists, flicking his cigarette a bit more harshly so that tiny little sparks of ash halo around his feet. "Look, Mikey--"

 

*

 

You have two childhoods. I know, I know. You hate it when I make you remember, but it's for your own good. You have this memory, right? Remember this? Mikey was three

\--you always think in terms of Mikey like if someone asked you what year you graduated you'd have to count back four years on your fingers from when Mikey did to figure it out--

and your parents told you they were sending you to summer art camp. Remember now? You squeezed Mikey like you could melt him into you and threatened to run away. It worked, of course. Mikey cried every time you left his sight for weeks, convinced that you wouldn't be coming back.

I know you remember it like that, but honey, you have two childhoods: the one you remember, and the one your parents insist is real. In their version, there was never a mention of you going away to summer camp. In their version, you refused to even look at Mikey for three weeks after they brought him home from the hospital and you insisted that you were an only child until Mikey was almost a year old.

\--none of that's true though see they think you're both too codependent so they made up that story about how you didn't even want a brother and--

Why do you always have to make these things so difficult on me? Why would I lie to you?

Well, okay. But why would I lie to you about _this_?

 

*

 

Gerard wakes up Tuesday in London. Blinks, and he's in Tokyo. Possibly, he's been on the road too long when he could wake up tomorrow in Jersey and still feel homesick. Of course, homesick is the least of his problems. He'd actually relish it right about now for the distraction, because it's entirely possible he will actually crawl out of his skin if he doesn't get a cigarette soon.

Mikey wanders out of the back in a pair of plaid pajama pants and what was probably once a t-shirt. Hair sticking up in every direction and glasses askew on his face, he sleepily bypasses Gerard on his way to the coffeemaker. Pouring the last, probably lukewarm, cup and grimacing at the first taste, he pinches his nose and downs the rest like he's still five years old and the coffee is actually Nyquil. "Starbucks on every fucking corner back home, and nobody thinks to buy a decent Columbian roast before we leave?"

And now that Mikey has said that, Gerard desperately, desperately wants Starbucks coffee. Possibly even more than a cigarette. Goddamn it.

Mikey abandons the coffee cup and heads back to bed like crappy coffee is reason enough to try to start the day over later, when he stops. Two steps backward without bothering to turn around, fumbles in his pocket for a second, and comes up with a pack of Marlboro Reds, which he presses into Gerard's hand wordlessly.

Gerard doesn't even have to ask how Mikey knew.

 

*

 

There are these moments sometimes where Gerard is hit with the fiercest sense of déjà vu. At first, he figured it was probably because he had been in these situations before, but he was just too wasted at the time to remember it now. Who knows, maybe there are hundreds of memories locked away somewhere in his brain. He just needs the perfect tick to hint at them.

Frankie asks what he means, fingers idly stroking through the hair at Gerard's temple. Gerard closes his eyes, rubs his cheek against the roughness of Frankie's jeans with a sigh. "This," he keeps his eyes closed, desperately tries to chase the sensation to something concrete. He says, "We've done this before," but even as he says it, it's not quite right.

"Yeah." There's the slightest hint of indulgence in Frankie's tone, because Gerard has always been tactile and his best friend learned long ago that this is the quickest way to soothe him. He can feel it nagging at the back of his mind. Almost... Same situation, but just not quite--

_"We've done this before?"_

_Fingertips stilling against his scalp, the body beneath him tense and quiet for a long moment before asking, betrayed, "How can you not remember?"_

\--grasp the wisps of thoughts enough to tie them all together. Like trying to paint and being unable to form the image on canvas the way it looks in his mind. He won't be able to sleep until he figures it out.

 

*

 

Gerard hasn't slept in two days.

It's a bad habit to drag his brother out of bed at two in the morning for the company, but Mikey has never once complained about it. "Tell me a story," Mikey wraps both hands around his cardboard Starbucks cup for warmth and lays his head on Gerard's shoulder.

When they were little, Gerard could weave fantastic stories for hours off the top of his head. At least all the drinking and drugs didn't destroy that part of his brain permanently. Without hesitation, Gerard starts something about vampire rabbits and immortal dragons, hand covering Mikey's and absently lifting the Starbucks cup to his own mouth. Mikey has always ordered the exact same drink that he does.

Halfway in, Mikey interrupts sleepily, "Why?" and Gerard almost thinks

\--_"Why what, Mikey?" Mikey closed in behind him, pressed up against his back, chin resting on his shoulder to watch Gerard paint._

_"Why did you paint the sky red?"_

_"It makes the city look smaller." He tilted his head to assess his work, bumping his cheek against the frames of Mikey's glasses._

_"Why?"_

_Distracted, Gerard shrugged Mikey off and turned. "Why what?"_

_Mikey wrapped his arms around himself, looking twelve years old again, and finally_

_[shook his head, forlorn. "Nothing."]_

or, maybe

_[looked up, voice strained somewhere between anger and hurt, "Why won't you--"]_\--

 

*

 

_"We've done this before?"_

_"How can you not remember?"_

 

*

 

You're losing your mind, sugar.

I may be the little voice inside your head, but even I know you're crazy. You can fool everybody else, but you're never going to fool me. Hate to say I told you so, but we both know the truth, don't we?

You. Are. Not. Enough.

It's not cruel to say it if it's the god's honest truth. Oh please, honey, stop with the denial. You'd have it so much easier if you'd quit being stubborn and just do what I tell you to.

You remember what Einstein said about insanity being when you do the same thing over and over, expecting a different outcome every time? I'm telling you now, this is going to end up just the same as all the other times you've tried it. Why don't you get it by now? There's a reason it

\--[_"Once upon a time, there lived a little boy named Mikey who was the center of the universe."_

_"I'm not the center of the universe, Gee."_

_"Shush, I'm telling the story. And who said you're the Mikey in the story?"_

_"What other Mikey would it be?"_]--

 

*

 

Fourth of July, three years ago. Gerard is three shots past drunk and halfway in love with everyone he meets. The world blurs around the edges. He can't close his eyes without getting dizzy. The bass of the music vibrates through his chest. His heart tries to sync itself up to the beat, skipping every so often. Beats sparkle and shimmer-burst around him.

Gerard is in a Copenhagen dance club half a world away from home, but still not far enough for it to make a difference. Gerard is drunk out of his mind, but never drunk enough to forget why he started in the first place. On a subway back to the hotel, he looks at Mikey and says, "I want to be everything and nothing."

"Okay," Mikey replies, and the distance between them is measured in miles when Mikey brushes him off like that.

"No," he insists. "Mikey, I want to be... I want..."

"You want too much."

And it's true, but it stings almost as much as Mikey shrugging off his halfhearted attempt at an apology. "Come on, Mikes, don't be like that. I fucking love you, you know I do. I hate when you're mad at me."

Mikey sighs, shakes his head. "You drink too much, Gee. I wish you'd quit."

"Mikey--"

 

*

 

This is where it starts to get fuzzy, right? I know, I know. You hate it when I make you remember. It's for your own good, someday you'll see. Remember this? The night after you graduated art school (two years early, because you're such a "prodigy") when you and Mikey got stoned out of your minds to celebrate.

Remember? Mikey all curled up into you on the sofa, watching some godawful 70's horror movie about zombies. The way his glasses would bump against your jaw as he turned his head and laughed against your neck at the bad acting and worse special effects.

\--_"Gee?"_

_Gerard turned his head, just a fraction, just barely enough to breathe in the faint hint of cigarette smoke and popcorn lingering in Mikey's hair. Mikey's breath warm against Gerard's neck as he absently traced restless patterns between Gerard's knee and thigh._

_"Hmm?"_

_"Missed you."_

_Mikey's lips, whisper soft and burning, against his neck, tongue darting out to_\--

No, wait. That's not right. Mikey wouldn't have made the first move. You dreamed that. You're mixing it all up again. Will you ever stop forgetting this?

 

*

 

_"Oh, god, I'm so sorry."_

_"No, you're not."_

_"...no. But I wish I was."_

 

*

 

"I think," Mikey starts out of nowhere one morning, after finally making time to have breakfast with Gerard. A blissfully caffeinated Starbucks Costa Rican Tarrazú is plaguing Gerard with ideas for painting the deep emeralds and rich olives of an exotic rainforest. He's sketching them on his napkin, considering the advantages of oil or acrylic paints when Mikey says, "I'm going to have that Lasik thing done next week."

Gerard blinks, dropping his pen. "What?"

"Lasik," Mikey repeats, offhand, as he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose the same way he has a thousand times a day since they were kids. Turns the page of the newspaper he's reading like he's talking about stopping at the store on the way home to pick up a pint of the raspberry flavored creamer he's been adding to everything he drinks lately. Gerard hates raspberries. Mikey continues, "So I don't have to wear glasses."

"Is this about my hair?" Gerard self-consciously rubs a hand over the almost-too-short platinum blond that he's still not used to. The first time Mikey saw it, he asked if Gerard had joined some neo-Nazi movement before storming out. He wouldn't return Gerard's phone calls for two weeks.

"Not everything is about you."

Stung, Gerard recoils and wraps his arms around himself. "You can't."

"Why not?"

It's wrong, Gerard wants to say. You won't be my Mikey anymore. Everybody else will see how beautiful you really are and you won't have time for me. You don't have time for me now. All he can say aloud is, "You'd be… different."

"Maybe I want to be different."


End file.
